


Only the Very Worst

by Trombonesonmars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Body Horror, Chucklevoodoos, F/M, Ghosts, Helmsman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trombonesonmars/pseuds/Trombonesonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the new empire, the practice of installing a troll to helm a star ship is reserved as punishment for only the most severe criminals. Of course, there is no dearth of criminals around, so the new empress Feferi has one installed as the main engine of her flagship; a would-be subjugglator convicted of mass murder and non-consensual mind control of two of his quadrants.</p><p>Meanwhile Aradia Megido, the more-than-slightly  morbid quadrant-corner to the empress herself, has heard there are creepy goings-on in the helmsblock and is more than willing to get her hands dirty to check it out for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Very Worst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RainofLittleFishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainofLittleFishes/gifts).



Sollux pinches his nose and sighs at you before handing over the badge he hooked you up with. “You know, AA, as soon as anybody who knows us sees that you were _randomly assigned_ this post is going to put two and two together and figure out I bypassed the randomizer.”

 

You pluck the “Temporary Reproductive Maintenance Assistant: Helmsblock” badge from your moirail’s skeletally long, bony fingers and give him a kiss on the hand. “Sollux, you’re the empress among moirails.”

 

He rolls his eyes and wipes the hand you kissed on your dress sleeve. “You’ve got that right. I am the master nepotist and granter of boons to creepers I’m quadranted with. Now shoo and go take care of your totally _randomly assigned_ remedial procreative duties, citizen.”

 

“Sure thing, Mr. Troll Resources Manager!” He scoffs at that as if it were an insult, but you’re already out the door and heading to complete your ‘assignment.’ Sollux is as much of a troll resources desk jockey as you are one of the old empire’s imperial drones, but he’s in charge of maintaining the internal operations’ communication system on the flagship, so he can get whatever permissions he may (or more often you) want.

 

Like hooking you up with a shift in the spookiest part of the whole ship! You swing by the Quadrant Services desk to check out a blank pail—the clerk gives your cheerful smile a baffled look before handing you a form to fill out. You label the contributors as “Makara, K.” and “Special solo permission: enlisted helmsman” before signing your name at the bottom to authorize it.

 

The clerk whistles low under her breath and arches an eyebrow at you in unwarranted sympathy. “Good luck on your trip to Engine Voodoo, Rustie.”

 

Your grin shifts from excited to just a little bit threatening, and respond. “Thanks, but I don’t need it.” Then you will a couple of the more mischievous ghosts on this floor to haunt her ass for the rest of the day.

 

It was made clear when Feferi won her challenge and took subsequent command of the imperial flagship that casteist remarks were no longer permissible. So really, you’re doing your (deeply satisfying) _duty_ in haunting her. You turn to go, leaving the block just as you hear a shriek of surprise from the clerk. You giggle darkly and swing the blank pail merrily as you head towards the engineering sector. Have you mentioned you like Sollux’s imperial matesprit’s governance? Because you totally do.

 

The whole deal where you can elect to provide support services in lieu of turning in one or both of your pails is especially nice. A literal lifesaver, in fact, as you are currently enjoying the freedom to live without concupiscent quadrants. Sure that means there are fewer new ghosts kicking about than there would be if procreative truancy was still punishable by culling, but that’s a tradeoff you’re willing to make.

 

A quick transportalizer ride down to security and then on to engineering bring you to the door to the helmsblock. You flash your badge officiously to the bored-looking guard who provides the last layer of security to the heart of the ship. He checks your paperwork, conducts a quick blood test and finally lets you through the doors to your destination.

 

The doors make a “shwump” noise as they close behind you, casting the room into darkness. After a second, rows of magenta safety lights flicker on one by one. The room is old—probably the least modified one of the ship from its original conditions when the Psiioniic was first installed—and the lights cast only a dim glow on a path to and around the helmscolumn. It is a massive thing, grown huge over millennia as the old Condesce kept nurturing both it and its symbiotic helmsman young. You can see that some of the tendrils—they look purple and magenta but that might just be the lighting—have been trimmed back, and of course the Psiioniic is installed no longer. Held fast to the center of the helmscolumn is a troll in a simple flightsuit and whose legs and arms disappear into the mass of tentaclery around him. His unkempt hair and long, spiraling horns are similar to those of another troll you know, but the atrocities _this_ troll is said to have committed make them seem sinister and foreign. The troll lifts his head slightly and appears to stare at you from across the room, revealing darkly-tinted goggles that seep alternating flashes of purple and magenta light from the edges, highlighting his gaunt cheekbones.

 

A thrill of excitement runs down your spine and you step forward cautiously, your body casting many shadows from the multiple light sources as you walk along the path toward your “client.” He stays still as you move toward him, your boots squelching as the thrum and beat of wetware grows. About five feet away from him you catch sight that his mouth is literally _sewn_ shut, and is set in a tight-lipped grin that stands out starkly on sallow, gray skin. You are pretty sure that that is not a standard punishment anymore, as neat-looking as it is.

 

Something in your low-blooded hindbrain stops you in your tracks, whispering wordless caution at your proximity to someone it thinks is a superior.

 

…Well fuck THAT. You give him an exaggerated bow and hold out the blank pail. “It’s that time of sweep again, _sir_. Specifically, it’s time for your contribution of caliginous material, here’s hoping you’re in the mood!”

 

The shadows of the room seem to dance in the corner of your eye, and a subsonic hiss fills your auricular spongeclots. The helmsman’s expression hasn’t changed, but the shadows in the room somehow have. It looks like the stories are true then. You let your eyes unfocus and tap your psi.

 

After a moment you seem them. Countless ghosts swarm around the breathing centerpiece of the room, their faint outlines in shades of rust, yellow, and green swarming and pulling at him, whispering their rage too deep and vast to be transcribed into the Alternian spoken by the living.

 

With your hand not holding the bucket you wave to them. “How’s it hanging, everyone? I’ve got some business with your friend there, so do you mind if I intrude?”

 

The ghosts pause in their dance for a moment, not truly aware of your presence, before most of them return to their haunting. Two of the more defined specters, however, meet your gaze with milky eyes and beckon you closer. The helmsman’s body is uncomfortably close, but his arms, legs, and neck are firmly entwined in the embrace of his column, so rationally you have nothing to fear.

 

Not quite meeting his eyes, you stare instead at the blank eyes of the two ghosts who beckoned to you. Their washed out faces are less enraged than the rest and more stricken, sorrowful, and hurt. You put your hand to your forehead in a psychic salute and their silhouettes grow stronger for a second, showing a girl with long, wild hair and horns with a slightly feline feel, and a boy with twinned horns and a dandelion-esque mess of fluff on his head _.  Don’t trust him_ they whisper.

 

You remove your hand to tilt your head respectfully at them and respond loud enough for the helmsman to hear. “Don’t worry, Departed Ones. I don’t trust the word of criminals.”

 

The helmsman’s body startles and you raise your gaze to meet his. He raises an eyebrow and moves his head down and up, as if to telegraph him looking you over and smirks. You give him your sweetest, open-mouthed smile and set down your pail at the base of the veined trunk of the helmscolumn. Waving the indistinct forms of ghosts away, you place your hand at his throat where the zipper of his flight suit starts and pull, muted chucklevoodoos tickling at your brain. “This is for them, Makara.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't as pornographic as I originally intended, but I really had fun making it creepy! Creating a scenario where Kurloz and Aradia could end up in these positions required some pondering, but I felt she would get the most out of interacting with helmsman!Makara in this way.


End file.
